Bolero
by SnowChaser
Summary: On the eve of being made Tranquil, the once-Champion of Kirkwall left behind something more valuable than gold- a memoir, in her own words.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Bolero  
><strong>Author:<strong> SnowChaser  
><strong>Pairing(s):<strong> Hawke x Anders  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is meant to be an end, of sorts, for one of my favorite Hawke's. Miranda was a Force Mage who also specialized in the Entropy school of magic. She was a rival-mance with Anders (lets face it, Anders is so much more fun as a rival) who, by the end of Act III, was nearly as passionate about the Mage's Plight as Anders. Since I've heard rumors that neither Hawke nor the Hero will be in DA:III, I'm ending Randi here, but keeping Artemis on the back burner just in case. First person, meant to be read as someone in the future finding this memoir of sorts. This is slightly AU- meaning that while the story shadows the game, certain events will be changed, certain conversations will be edited, and, over all, it will be very different than the game in some respects. Some chapters will be longer than others- the first two or three are barely more than a page, if that.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> And so, my story begins…

* * *

><p><span>Prologue: In the Dungeon<span>

_I never thought it would end here, waiting for the Brand, while my lover watches on with soulless eyes. It was supposed to end with my rescuing him, saving him. It was meant to end in the Deep Roads, fighting off Darkspawn until finally being overrun, not in some cold, dank dungeon surrounded by Templars._

_They call this mercy- as does my former companion, and friend. He gloats over his victory over my lover- but he refuses to do so with me. He honestly believes it is merciful to sever a mage from the Fade- that it is a kindness to not put us to death. And nothing, not even I, can convince Sebastian that he is wrong to think such things. He will not hear, because he simply does not wish to hear._

_These will be the last words I ever write._

_It's strange to think that, in a few days, I will be but a pale imitation of myself. You would think I would be resentful, but I am not. You would think my last words would be to Carver, my only remaining kin- but no. I choose to spend my final hours telling my story, so that when I am gone, I may yet have my story be told, in my own words. Varric may believe he is a master storyteller, but he deals in fiction based upon half truths and whole lies. That is not an insult- it is why I chose him, over my other companions, to tell my story._

_He would have you believe that I was swept off my feet in a world of intrigue and mystery- that I was innocent of what happened with the Chantry. And why not? To cast my lover as both victim and villain, while making me look like a lamb brought to the slaughter only helped our cause along. Our names were rallying cries amidst the blood and gore of the Revolution- our story passed along in legend and song until even I could not tell you where the truth and fiction lay, at times._

_But I digress._

_These last few hours will tell the true tale of Miranda Hawke, once Champion of Kirkwall, and that of her companions. It will tell the truth of Kirkwall, of the incident with the Chantry. But, most importantly, it will tell the story of the Revolution._

_I pray that you will keep these words close to your heart. Not for my sake, dear reader- but for the sake of the Revolution, now that I am not around to see it to fruition. Take heed, and listen._

_And so, my story begins…._


	2. Chapter One: Early Life

**Author's Note:** Music for chapter- Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Time Floats On. This is the last entry for some time which is not directly from the game.

Chapter One: Early Life

_Varric would have you believe I was born in Lothering, but that was not the case. I was born in Kirkwall, while my father was away dallying with the Wardens in the Vinmark Mountains. My mother always found it prudent to remind me of this fact, while I was determined to remain Fereldan to my toes. When my father returned, he took us to Fereldan to escape the long arm of the very same Wardens he had been helping, not to escape Kirkwall. It was not until years later, in the very same fortress, that I would discover why he had fled so far, and so fast._

_Again, I digress. You would think that, with what little time I have left, I would be able to stay on task._

_My family fled first to Highever- that is where my first memories are. Memories of playing with a young girl with gold eyes and flaming red hair, who would someday grow up to be the savior of Fereldan in its' darkest hour; the Hero of Fereldan. Memories of a kind, gentle Teryn, who accepted my presence in his castle as if it were common to have a penniless refugee play with nobility. Bryce Couseland was a kind man- he gave my parents work, he tried his best to shelter us. The noble who made sure my newborn brother and sister were well-fed and warm, and safe. But the Templars found my father- they always did- and we were forced to flee. The Teryn made certain we had food and clothing, and money, before we left. Leaving Kizira was the hardest thing I'd ever done, up to that point. She was my best friend- my only friend- and I had to say goodbye._

_We never saw each other again._

_We moved a few times within the next few years- to Ostwick, to Redcliff, even to Denerim for a few months, before we settled in Lothering. There my parents found work, food, and safety. We finally had a home, and a place where we could sleep, unafraid._

_Our home was large, for Lothering. We had a loft, where my sister and I shared a bed, separated by a blanket to give Carver his own privacy. In a way, it was like having our own rooms- even if we could look over the railing and see the rest of the house. From our vantage point, we could see the hearth, the heart of our home, and watch Mother darning socks and knitting during the long winter nights. To watch Papa come in, shaking the icicle off his boots, and calling out to us for a hug._

_It's strange, what you remember about a person when they die. I remember my Father in striking clarity, from his brown eyes to his blonde bearded cheek as it nuzzled into my hair. He always smelled of pine needles and soap, just as he always claimed it was our love which warmed him the most when he came home from a long day of working as a woodcutter. He was a good man, my father. Even after long days of work, he came home ready to play with his children- mother often said he was a fourth child, and he would just laugh._

_It was my father, you know, who named me Miranda. When I asked him what it meant, he told me that it meant 'worthy of love'. He'd named me such as I was a striking child, even as an infant._

_"Mirra," he'd say, "you're the greatest treasure a man could ever have."_

_I loved my father above all else. He was the first great love of my life._

_When I first manifested my magic, he became more than a playmate, more than my father. He became my teacher, my instructor. He taught me about demons, about the Fade, but, most of all, he taught me to hide it. He taught me that magic was a shameful thing to have- not intentionally, but he did it all the same. He made the Circle sound like a safe haven, like a place where Mages could be themselves and not have to worry, not like the Prison it is. It is through him that I first formed my opinion of the Circle. When Bethany joined us, it was like being given a gift- my sister and I could talk about it when Father was away._

_It made Carver more resentful, however. Once, my brother and I were close as two siblings could be. I loved him as much as one can love their brother- and he loved me. But Papa had to use so much of his time to train both my sister and I that Carver was the odd one out. All he wanted was our Father's love- something I don't think he knew he already had. My brother scorned me, and I felt like a part of me had died. Over time, we became so used to the backbiting nature of our relationship that I think we forgot we were ever friends to begin with._

_For nearly twelve years, we were happy there._

_I was seventeen when my father died._

_That day began like any other- I woke to Bethany crying out in pain as she tried to rise, which meant Carver had nailed her braid to the bed again. I helped her get loose, swatted Carver for doing it, and had breakfast. It was nearly noon when one of Papa's associates came running up the lane. I knew something was wrong then- I always knew when something was wrong- and I didn't wait for mother. I wish, now, that I had waited. I wasn't prepared to find my father crushed beneath a tree, breathing labored. I wasn't prepared to feel his cold, clammy hand against my cheek, eyes fixed on mine with such great affection in their depths._

_"Mirra," he nearly whispered my private nickname. "You have to be…. Strong now, my love. I- I'm dying…"_

_"Papa…." I remember pleading with him not to die, cradling his head to my chest as if I could somehow will him to live through sheer force of will._

_"Don't… cry, Mirra." He touched my face again, so gently. "You… have to take care… of them now." His voice shook, and it took all my willpower not to start crying in earnest. "You're…. my big girl, now."_

_"Papa… you'll be alright…" But even I knew I was lying, by now._

_He died in my arms…._


End file.
